‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Viols sound so crude when one is used to the lighter tones of the violin. Do you not agree, Thomas?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. To his mind, nothing could compare to a consort of viols, and he thought the Earl did not deserve to hear one if he was incapable of appreciating its haunting beauty.
The Earl shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Then it is just as well you are not invited.’
He bustled away to change his clothes before his guests arrived, and Haddon took the opportunity to pull the spy to one side.
‘You asked me to listen for rumours pertaining to the murders, but I am afraid there is little point in repeating what I have heard, because it is all nonsense. However, there is one snippet that you may find interesting. Do you recall Turner saying he had arranged a midnight tryst with a lover when he stumbled upon Vine’s body?’
‘With Meg the laundress. She has not been seen since.’
Haddon smiled. ‘Ah, but she has! You see, I complimented Alderman Tryan on his beautifully clean lace today, and we got talking. Boastfully, he told me that his laundry is done by the same lass who does the King’s. Then he said Meg had delivered him a batch of clean shirts only last night.’
Chaloner was pleased, because he had been certain she was dead. ‘Are you sure?’
Haddon nodded. ‘She has been away, visiting kin in Islington. But now she is back, so you can interview her about what she saw on the night of Vine’s death. Perhaps she spotted the killer slinking out of the Painted Chamber, and can describe him for you. If so, then it is good news for Greene.’
‘Did she tell Tryan anything about the murder?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the Westminster poisoner would not hear about her return and move to ensure she did not provide investigators with clues.
‘Not that he shared with me. I have a friend — a fellow dog-lover — who works in the laundries, and he is going to find out where she lives. The moment I hear from him, I shall let you know.’
Chaloner thanked him and left Worcester House, intending to track Meg down himself, but he had not taken many steps before he collided heavily with someone. Symons reeled from the impact, which had been entirely his fault — the spy had done his best to move out of the way, but Symons had been so preoccupied that he had ploughed ahead like a runaway cart. He mumbled an apology, bowed his orange head as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and continued on up The Strand.
Chaloner’s first instinct was to call him back, to ask about his uncle’s prayer meetings and the curious combination of men they had attracted. But Symons was moving very purposefully, so he started to follow him instead. Once past the New Exchange, Symons turned left, threading through a maze of lanes until he reached Covent Garden. By then, Chaloner knew exactly where he was going: to John’s Coffee House, perhaps for one of the assemblies Greene had mentioned. It seemed as good a time as any to find out whether the gatherings had any bearing on his investigation, so Chaloner decided to eavesdrop.
John’s had once been a tavern, and still looked like one. It was a great sprawling place, with upper storeys that overjetted the street like a looming drunk. It was run by John Ravernet, a thin, sallow-faced man who liked to tell everyone he had been a Royalist hero during the wars. Unfortunately for his credibility, Chaloner recalled visiting the place a decade before, and hearing Ravernet talk about his bravery when he was serving in Cromwell’s army. It was hard to blame anyone for embroidering their past in the current climate of unease, although it occurred to the spy that there might be less mistrust if everyone just told the truth.
He followed Symons inside, and took a seat near the back of the room, where thick shadows and a lack of natural light rendered him virtually invisible. Symons went to a table where several men already sat. They greeted him with friendly calls of ‘what news?’ so he told them about the King’s tennis, although his voice was flat and dull, as if the Court’s antics were of no interest to him. They were of interest to his companions, though: they shook their heads in salacious disgust. After a while, some left, making room for new arrivals. Chaloner frowned thoughtfully when he saw his suspects turn up one by one, as and when they managed to escape from the Tennis Court.
Within an hour, they were all there — Symons, Greene, Gold, Neale, Hargrave and Tryan. Chaloner wondered whether Doling and the Lea brothers might appear, too, but then recalled that although they had attended Scobel’s prayers, they did not seem to belong to the coffee-house set. Four seats were ominously empty, and the spy noticed several of the gathering glance sadly at the places that had presumably been occupied by Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and Jones.
Others arrived to join the assembly, too, and Chaloner was disconcerted to see Turner among them. The colonel wore a disguise, but his confident swagger and the hole in his earlobe gave him away. He was not the only one who had tried to conceal his identity. So did two more men: hats shielded their faces, and they did not remove them, even when Ravernet arrived with a tray of coffee and they all took a dish. Chaloner studied them hard. Did he know them? Unfortunately, their shape and size told him nothing, and he suspected he could stare at them all day and still have no answers.
Eventually, Symons said something that resulted in them all huddling together with their heads bowed and their hands clasped together. Their voices dropped, and Chaloner found he could not hear a word. He edged closer, but it made no difference. He watched with a puzzled frown: it looked as though they were praying. It did not seem very likely, especially in a coffee house, but he could not imagine what else they could be doing.
After a while, Greene went to order more drinks. As he did so, the man next to him glanced up, and Chaloner finally caught a glimpse of the fellow’s face. It was heavily bearded and dominated by a large nose; the nose looked artificial and Chaloner knew he had never seen it before. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about the rest of the face. It took Chaloner a moment, but then recognition came. Swaddell’s disguise was excellent, and the spy might have been deceived had he not been trained to notice such details — Swaddell’s restless black eyes were distinctive.
So what was the Spymaster’s assassin doing in such company? Clearly, Williamson did not know what Swaddell was up to, or he would not have asked Chaloner to look into the man’s disappearance. Or was the Spymaster playing a complex game that entailed convincing everyone that his agent was missing? Chaloner frowned, feeling his investigation had just taken a distinctly sinister turn, if Williamson and his favourite henchman were involved.
It was not much longer before Symons stood to leave, which brought the meeting to an end. Chaloner followed the participants outside, and found himself faced with three choices. He could trail Symons home, and interview him and his wife. He could attempt to find out what Swaddell was doing. Or he could concentrate on the last man of the group, the one whose face he had been unable to see, and try to learn his identity. Unfortunately, the last man had used a different door from the others, and had already disappeared, so Chaloner waited just long enough to satisfy himself that Symons was heading in the right direction for his house, then set off after Swaddell.
The Spymaster’s man did not go far before ducking into a doorway. Chaloner crept forward cautiously, aware that if Swaddell was half as dangerous as everyone claimed, then he would know he was being followed and would react with his knife. He waited until the assassin’s attention was fixed on removing his nose, then stepped up behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck.
‘Your master is worried about you,’ he said softly. ‘He thinks you are drowned.’